


of villages, and other places that villanelle would like to burn to the ground

by silent_h



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Second person POV, also like, child endangerment, eve being a repressed useless bisexual™, like we all know this isn't a healthy relationship but is it an unhealthy one is the real question, moderate swearing??, oh i guess uh, some people die i guess, uhh, uhh like?? mild sexual references??, uhhhhhh, villanelle just being like That, villanelle keeps fantasising abt killing ppl how do i tag that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_h/pseuds/silent_h
Summary: canon divergence au, of course(but maybe not in the place that you were expecting)





	of villages, and other places that villanelle would like to burn to the ground

**Author's Note:**

> i think i tagged all the triggers but like if there's anything else please tell me! also really this should be like twice as long but oh well!!
> 
> this fic is brought to you by the fact that the beeb has finally let us brits watch killing eve (legally)

A bird made its way into your apartment once.

 

You’d been people watching again, leaning so far out over the window sill that you could feel the wind on your face, when Konstantin had called you over to him. He had _that_ tone in his voice, the one that meant you’d done something _naughty_ (something _fun_ ), and you flattened your expression, made your eyes soft and wide and innocent looking. It wouldn’t work, of course, but you did it anyway.

 

Neither of you realised that you’d left the window open.

 

When you came back, blood under your fingernails and a sated feeling curling in your chest, the curtains were in disarray.

 

_Intruder_ , you'd thought, hand already reaching for a knife, but there was a soft noise coming from your bedroom.

 

You followed it, and found a small feathery ball curled up in the middle of your bedsheets. You poked the ball, and it shivered.

 

“Careless child,” Konstantin said, as you ever so slowly scooped up the bird.

 

You blew raspberries at him. The bird trilled at the noise, at _you_ , and oh. _Oh_.

 

A few days later you grew bored of it, and snapped its neck.

 

You’re not entirely sure why you can’t just do that now.

 

“ _No_ ,” Eve snaps. She’s pacing, running a hand through her magnificent hair as she does so.

 

You watch, fascinated.

 

Eve says _no_ a lot, you’ve noticed.

 

You like it, the way you like everything she says, but you think you’d like her saying _yes_ more. No, you _know_ you would. You want to know what she sounds like saying it, what she _tastes_ like saying it. You want to bite the inside of her leg and hear it curl out of her.

 

You tell her that and she stops pacing, pink spreading across her cheeks.

 

You want to lick them; you tell her that too.

 

“Oh,” she says, blinking, still standing still. You widen your eyes as far as they will go, wide enough that you wonder if she can see herself reflected in them. “That’s— Oh.”

 

“That’s _gross_ ,” Irina says.

 

 

—

 

 

You didn’t _mean_ to take Irina, is the thing.

 

Hadn’t even thought of her beyond luring Konstantin to you, _couldn’t_ think beyond that, not when _Eve_ was there and your thoughts were tripping round in circles.

 

(if you kill konstantin then you have no handler then you don’t have to do the job then you don’t have to kill him then you have a handler then you have to do the job then you have to kill him then you have no handler then—)

 

And everyone was being so _loud_ and you had to be louder, had to cut above the noise, had to do your _job_ why don’t they understand why don’t they _listen_ —

 

And beautiful, dizzying Eve, standing between you and your _job_ and you would kill her you could kill her you should kill her—

 

“Come with me,” she said.

 

And it was stupid but _oh,_ you _wanted_.

 

Eve with you, for you, having you. It burned, that _want_. It made your gun arm twitch, slightly.

 

She saw it, as she sees everything. You don’t have the words for how that makes you feel.

 

“I can come with you?” you asked.

 

You didn’t mean to sound so hopeful, for your voice to lift up at the end. You meant for it be playful, for it be threatening. You are the one in control here.

 

(you very much are not)

 

But she still walked towards you.

 

She was shaking, ever so slightly, but her hands were steady, and her gaze was locked onto yours, as if you were the only two people in the room.

 

“Okay,” she said. Her eyes flicked down to Irina, still held against you, to Konstantin, watching you with something sad and understanding in his gaze. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

 

(let’s: contraction of let us

 

let _us_ )

 

What else could you say but yes?

 

Still. He hit you with a _log_.

 

Your gun went off and Eve gasped and Konstantin cried out and Irina screamed and you _laughed_ loud and free and manic and Irina would not stop would not stop would not _stop_ you took your gun and you put it back to her head and—

 

And Eve, beautiful, _stupid_ Eve, took one look at whatever it was she could see in your eyes, and said _Oksana_.

 

And you said _fine_.

 

 

—

 

 

It is not fine.

 

Irina is _annoying_. She shouts at you for shooting her father ( _your_ konstantin, _yours_ ), she shouts at you for taking her, she shouts at you for food, for water, for rest. You shout back, louder.

 

You should have just shot her and be done with it.

 

In the middle of you both, Eve looks tired.

 

She tries to tell the people who stare as you go past that you are sisters, that you are mother and daughter, that you are just having a regular argument _nothing to see here_. Her Russian is shit. You tell her so, and Irina stops shouting to laugh.

 

“It is,” she says. Her face is red from shouting, but it is dry.

 

Should she be crying? Maybe there is something _wrong_ with her. You like that thought.

 

“Villanelle,” Eve says, when there are no people around, when she’s stopped looking every which way with paranoia, “ _Oksana._ You’ve got to know somewhere we can stay, right?”

 

_We_. _We(!)_ can stay.

 

You have many hidey holes, some of which even Konstantin is unaware of. _Was_ unaware of _._ Chances are, your old employers are also unaware of them.

 

You imagine Eve seeing them, _being_ in them.

 

Eve in your place, in your clothes, in your _bed_.

 

Oh, you _want_.

 

“I don’t want to stay with _her_ ,” Irina says.

 

You do not want _her_ there.

 

“Good,” you say. “I will leave you to the other assassins.” You narrow your eyes, bend down to her height. “I will throw you into the river.”

 

“I can _swim_ , dumbass.”

 

Not without limbs, you think, darkly. Not tied up in a bag. Not chopped into little tiny pieces.

 

But Eve looks _tired_.

 

 

—

 

 

You take them to an apartment three streets away, one that you haven’t used in years. The identity who owns this place is a moderately wealthy Russian expat who stays over here when she’s visiting her family.

 

The hallway is empty while you are letting yourself in, thank god. You do not have the energy to pretend to care for _people_ right now.

 

(although. you imagine draping yourself over eve’s shoulder, making your accent american tinged, telling people you are _eve’s trophy wife, isn’t that funny?_ irina is somewhere else. dead, maybe.

 

then you remember that that would not be legal here. would eve let you shoot people if they were homophobic?

 

would eve shoot them for you?)

 

There is one bedroom, and Eve and Irina will take it. Eve makes this very clear.

 

The brat should take the floor. You make _this_ very clear.

 

It is _your_ safehouse, after all. If you wanted, you could kick the both of them back to the various agencies and let them fend for themselves. And besides, you have a gun. Neither of _them_ have weapons. You should get first pick.

 

You sit in the living room while they make up the bed. You are not sulking.

 

“That asshole killed my father,” Irina spits, and you wonder if she knows you can hear her. Probably.

 

“That asshole killed my best friend,” Eve says.

 

That? Still?

 

You do not have a best friend, have never had a best friend. Today you killed what you imagine could be described as the two closest people to you, and you feel fine.

 

Is she mad about it?

 

You pull yourself up from your slouch and step noiselessly over to the wall. You hold your ear up against it to get a clearer sound.

 

Eve’s voice is Eve’s voice. You could listen to it all day, you think, and still not name all the complexities in it.

 

You would prefer to listen to it when it is not insulting you, though.

 

“It is not nice to call people assholes,” you say, poking your head around the doorframe.

 

Eve’s eyebrows hitch up, but she doesn’t jump. You’re not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

 

“ _Мудак_ ,” Irina says.

 

 

—

 

 

Later, you sprawl across the couch while Irina prepares for bed, and Eve sits next to you, as far away as she can be while still being on the seat.

 

It is very rude.

 

You tell her that.

 

“ _You’re_ rude,” she says.

 

(well. obviously. it's part of your charm)

 

Eve sets out the rules: you are not allowed to harm Irina you are not allowed to harm innocent people you are not not _not_ allowed to kill people _do you hear me asshole_?

 

“Always,” you tell her, truthfully.

 

She huffs at you, eyes rolling. It is beautiful.

 

( _innocent_ is a flexible term, and you are so very good at finding loopholes

 

such as: she didn’t say you weren’t allowed to harm _her_

 

such as: she didn’t say she wasn’t allowed to harm _you_ )

 

She says: if you break these rules, she will kill you.

 

(well. she actually says:  _break one of these rules asshole and i’ll take one of those knives you think i don’t know about and i’ll drive it right between your ribs just see if i don’t_

 

same thing)

 

You both know she won’t.

 

(what you don’t know, however, is what she _will_ do if you break them. and you don’t know if she knows, either

 

oh, you can’t _wait_ to find out)

 

Irina has rules too, though Eve told her them while you were sitting (not sulking) in the living room. She has to follow them too.

 

“Or you’ll kill her?” you ask, hopefully.

 

She doesn’t bother to answer you. Doesn’t even bother to change her expression. You mimic her, and keep your own expression unchanging. You don’t let her see how much that pricks at you.

 

God, you hate being ignored. Especially by Eve.

 

( _you_ can’t ignore her; wouldn’t even know how to. it’s as if every molecule in your body strains to be near hers)

 

“Technically,” you point out, “I kidnapped you. Shouldn’t I get to make the rules?”

 

She frowns. Opens her mouth and then closes it. Runs a hand through her hair.

 

“I think,” she says, slowly, pulling a face, “that we kind of kidnapped each other?”

 

No.

 

That is not how it works. You had the gun, the hostage, the leverage. You’re the one who dragged them along to your place.

 

But Eve was the one who told you when to go.

 

(maybe that’s a little how it works)

 

_Fine._

 

You hum in agreement, and you sit up, slowly. Pull yourself along to her, as if on a string. Rest your head on her shoulder.

 

She tenses under your touch.

 

Her heartbeat is hummingbird fast against your ear.

 

(you imagine a small shivering ball in your hands. you imagine _eve_ , small and shivering in your hands)

 

“I would let you kidnap me anytime,” you murmur.

 

She pushes you away, hard. “Christ,” she mutters. She’s running a hand through her hair again.

 

You laugh, loudly, falling back onto the couch.

 

From the next room, Irina bangs on the door for you to shut up.

 

 

—

 

 

The wall is too thick for you to hear Eve breathing through it. She doesn’t snore, but you hear, occasionally, a softly muttered word. She talks in her sleep. Of course she does.

 

(as if mere unconsciousness could halt eve’s unrelenting mind)

 

You stay like that for near an hour, before you get bored.

 

The couch is uncomfortable when you are the only one on it, when Eve is a wall away from you. You fidget, toss and turn, arrange and rearrange the couch cushions.

 

It is light out when you finally fall asleep, and the last of your waking moments are serenaded by the morning birds.

 

You sleep well, still. You sleep better than you have in years.

 

 

—

 

 

The next morning, you press your face up against the window and catch sight of two men who are very clearly Russian Intelligence in the street below. They are most definitely looking for you.

 

You did not expect for them to expand the search so quickly. It is...flattering.

 

“We are very popular,” you tell Eve. You are only preening a little.

 

She laughs, still. And it is not a mean laugh, or a nervous laugh. It sounds exasperated. Fond, even.

 

Eve is _fond_ of you.

 

You preen a little more.

 

It is a good look on you, you think.

 

Well. You _know_ it is. All looks are, after all.

 

Eve wants you all to leave the country without being followed, which you can do, but she wants it done without leaving bodies, which you _can’t_ do.

 

“The _rules_ , Oksana,” she says, over breakfast (dry bread no butter a slither of cheese. eve covers her bread-and-cheese with a thick spread of some kind of chutney whose jar label has long since faded. it is _disgusting_. you want her to feed it to you. irina eats a whole jar of peanut butter by itself, arm curled protectively over it. you are still not sure why she is still alive).

 

Eve uses _Villanelle_ when she is annoyed at you, and _Oksana_ when she wants you to listen to her.

 

Sometimes she uses them both in the same sentence. You are not yet quite sure how you feel about it.

 

Apart from, of course, how you always feel about her.

 

“They are _your_ rules,” you point out, “not mine. You are no  _fun_.”

 

“You think that killing is—? Of course you do. Stupid question.”

 

Her face scrunches with thought, and you watch, spellbound. You stuff the last of your bread into your mouth so you can rest your head in your hands.

 

She’s beautiful, of course, always, but like this? Deep in thought, brow scrunched, mouth set? You’d almost call it _adorable_ if it weren’t for the fire that flickered in her eyes. You could watch her like this all day and never grow bored.

 

Her face smooths out suddenly, in triumph.

 

You try to make it seem as though you aren’t leaning forward across the kitchen table.

 

“If you have to get us out of here without killing people then that makes it harder, right?” There’s an undercurrent of _something_ to her voice, something sharp and electric and so very pleased. “Can you even do that?”

 

(oh, this woman)

 

“That is the most transparent attempt at manipulation that I have ever seen,” you say, nonchalant.

 

Across from you both, Irina snorts.

 

(you can’t help it though, you’ve already sat up straighter, already accepted her challenge)

 

Eve _grins_ , showing her teeth.

 

You imagine them sinking into your skin.

 

(you’ve been described as catlike before

 

eve, you think, is sharklike. she keeps her teeth hidden until needed, and then she attacks, and doesn’t let go)

 

“It’s still working, though,” she says.

 

Of course it is. Bitch.

 

 

—

 

 

Over the next few days, you jump from safehouse to safehouse, and you don’t kill a single person. It is _dull_ , but Eve’s more settled for it.

 

Each time, Eve makes you give her and Irina the bedroom, and each time you let them have it.

 

It doesn’t matter. She’s softer each time, too. She still tenses up when you get too close, still stares at you with wide eyes whenever you clean your weapons, still scowls every time you call her _baby_.

 

But. She’s softer. She watches movies with you whenever there’s a tv, and doesn’t seem to mind that you spend most of the film watching _her_.

 

Irina is the same as she always is. You are pretty sure there is something wrong with her. You still like that thought.

 

 

—

 

 

Eve’s Russian is still shit, and you don’t trust Irina to not be stupid, so you are the one who has to make supply runs.

 

The first time you leave, you are not entirely sure that they will both be there when you come back.

 

They are.

 

(you wouldn’t have said you were _worried_ , but this soft fluttering feeling? is this relief? it grows every time you wake up and eve is still there, every time you move close and eve doesn’t jump away from you)

 

You bring back shitty food for Irina and English translated newspapers for Eve to pour over and alcohol that Eve stares longingly at but doesn’t drink and clothes for the both of them.

 

You take great delight in picking out shit clothes for Irina to wear. _Girly_ shit clothes. Dresses and skirts and frilly socks, all of them soft white and peach and pink.

 

“Can’t you at least _try_ not to antagonise her?” Eve asks, on the third day of this.

 

“Oh, sorry,” you say, eyebrows rising, tilting your head just so, “am I not being an accommodating enough kidnapper?”

 

She rolls her eyes. The _asshole_ is implied.

 

(you take greater delight in the way eve looks at herself in the mirror when she tries the clothes on. disbelieving. as if she didn’t know how she looked

 

there is no greater pity, you think, than a woman who doesn’t know she’s beautiful

 

and _oh_ , is eve beautiful)

 

You never go to the same shop twice, and you never use a card at all. Instead, you mostly pickpocket petty cash, and save the money that was stored at every one of hideouts. You don’t tell Eve this. You’re pretty sure you don’t have to. It is the logical thing to do, after all.

 

Sometimes you catch sight of the people following you. It’s mostly your old people, as expected. British Intelligence are amateurish compared to them.

 

“Rude,” she says, when you tell her that. As if she wasn’t the one who defected.

 

(but then, you defected too. what does that make you?

 

well. still better than the british intelligence. not like it's hard)

 

They never see you. Mostly never.

 

 

—

 

 

“Villanelle,” Eve says, desperately, “Oksana? Are you hurt?”

 

There is concern in her expression, but there is anger too. You very much wish that you could see what she would do to a person who hurts you.

 

(you don’t know yet what kind of person eve is when she hurts someone, but you think it will be slow. you like to be slow too, but only at the end. you like to draw out the moment the life drains from their eyes. you like to _watch_. you think when eve will kill someone (when not if because you _know_ she is too much like you for it be if) they will die quickly, but they will hurt slowly

 

you have thought about this a lot)

 

It’s a shame that you won’t be able to see this now.

 

“It is not my blood,” you shrug, and she draws in a sharp breath.

 

You don’t have to tell her that the person whose blood this is is no longer alive because she already knows. She always already knows, the way she always does.

 

(this, this... _knowing_. what does it mean? what does it mean to know a person more intimately than you know your own self?)

 

She seems to struggle with herself for a moment, eyes closing, jaw stiffening.

 

She opens her eyes, and you are lost.

 

“Irina,” she says, firmly, finally, “go in the other room, please.”

 

_Ha!_

 

Irina sits up sharply from where she was watching the both of you. _She_ does not look concerned for your wellbeing. _Bitch._

 

“What?” she says. “No! I want to know what’s going on!”

 

“What is going on," you say, "is that you are being sent to your  _room_ like a  _child_.”

 

“ _Irina_ ,” Eve repeats. It is not exactly the same tone she uses when she is annoyed with you.

 

Good. You could never be _jealous_ of the brat, but. You don’t know. But you adore the fact that Eve’s voice for you is never ever Eve’s voice for Irina.

 

You stick your tongue out at her as she walks past.

 

She glares at you, but she leaves.

 

“Сука,” she mutters, before she slams the door.

 

“I know that one,” Eve says, dryly. There’s almost a smile on her face, twinned with yours, and then she catches sight of the blood on your shirt again, and her expression flattens.

 

You put on your most winning smile. Doesn’t work.

 

“Do I want to know who they—  Eve starts, before she stops, shaking her head. “No,” she answers herself, “I really don’t.” And then she shakes her head again. “Actually, yeah,” she corrects. “Yeah, I _need_ to know. Were they one of mine?”

 

You wonder whether she’d leave if they were.

 

“No,” you tell her, and she seems to deflate.

 

You’re even telling the truth.

 

(would you have lied if they were one of hers? you’re not sure. you’re not sure if it matters)

 

“I broke one of your rules,” you point out. You move towards her, closer and closer until her back hits the wall, until you’re breathing the same air. You make your eyes big and wide and guileless. “Are you going to kill me now?”

 

You don’t know how you keep forgetting how much shorter than you she is.

 

(you do know. it’s because she seems so much bigger than she is. eve polastri, force of nature

 

man-made scales can’t come _close_ to measuring her)

 

The last time you were this close to her, you’d broken into her house. You’d pressed her up against her fridge and she’d stared up at you, scared and shaking.

 

She’s not scared now. She’s still shaking.

 

“No,” she admits. There is a slight break in her voice. It sounds as though it pains her to say. It sounds as though she wishes you were in pain too.

 

(maybe you wish that too. a little)

 

You pout.

 

“It is not nice to _tease_ , Eve,” you whine.

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

And it is lost, whatever _it_ was. Eve is still again, is scowling at you. She looks bigger again. You’re fairly sure that if you try to push her now she will punch you.

 

She is fragile that way, your Eve.

 

It is infuriating.

 

(it is _exhilarating_ )

 

“Then what will you do?”

 

You are already so close, but you move closer still, until your hands are over her wrists, until your nose is touching hers.

 

She swallows, audibly. She hasn’t started shaking again yet. You have the sudden feeling that she won’t.

 

Oh, you think. _Oh_.

 

You turn your head, move your mouth until it is a hair's breadth away from her ear. Her hair smells soft and fruity (peaches? you think? and honey?). You want to live in that scent, if you could.

 

“Will you _punish_ me, Eve?”

 

Her heartbeat leaps under your palms, her eyes widening, before she pushes you back.

 

“There’s a _child_ in the next room,” she hisses, and you rock back on your heels, delighted.

 

“That’s the only reason?”

 

Eve— stutters, is the only word for it.  Like removing a frame or two from an animation. Like cutting a puppet’s strings.

 

“And you’re a murderous psychopath,” she says. It’s a little too late, a little too desperate, and something warm and soft curls around your insides.

 

You want to rip it out.

 

No.

 

You want _her_ to rip it out, to reach into your chest with her hand and _pull_.

 

(you imagine what she looks like with your blood under her fingernails and oh you like it you like it you like it)

  


—

  


You already knew she wouldn’t kill you if you broke one of her rules (it works both ways sometimes, this _knowing_. you are indescribably smug) but now you know that she will do _nothing_.

 

Rules without consequences are not rules at all.

 

Now you know that, hypothetically speaking, you could get rid of the brat.

 

(there would no longer be a child in the next room. eve would no longer have a readily accessible excuse to push away from you

 

would she find another?

 

you’re not sure of that, just yet)

 

You haven’t though.

 

Eve would be sad, or angry, or both, you reason, and you don’t know how long that will last.

 

(her anger is like fire: sharp and loud and crackling on your skin; and oh, if only you could bask in it forever

 

her sadness is like water: cold and muffled and suffocating; and oh, you hate the way it clings to your skin)

 

And besides, Eve’s French is almost as bad as her Arabic is almost as bad as her Russian, and you would miss having someone to practise with.

 

(she speaks polish better than you, but you refuse to speak in it with her)

 

Mostly, the three of you speak English, but you try to slip different words in every so often. You make Eve repeat them back to you, ignoring her until she does. It annoys her at first, but she catches on quickly.

 

You can’t stay in Russia, after all, and you can’t go back to France, or England.

 

You use Spanish, mostly.

 

South America is big. Perhaps big enough to hide the three (the _two_ you do not care about irina you do not you do not you do _not_ ) of you.

 

Irina can already speak it, and by the end of this (whatever _this_ is, and whatever an _end_ looks like), you would like Eve to be at least able to hold basic conversation in it.

 

(and. well. her voice curling its way around different languages is. well

 

yes)

 

 

—

  


You haven’t discussed it in as many words, but it’s understood that you’re aiming for the Russian-Ukrainian border.

 

An airport would be too risky, and you can’t speak Finnish worth a damn, and you don’t know your way around the other border countries.

 

The problem, of course, is that the people who taught you that are the same people who are looking for you.

 

You try to plan your route accordingly. You meander, doubling back on yourself, you go ahead by yourself and let yourself be seen on cameras, and then sneak back around to the other two and take a different path.

 

There’s still only so much you can do, though.

 

You are in your twelfth safehouse when it is broken into.

 

You’re honestly disappointed that it took them this long.

 

(of course, _you_ were their best asset. there’s no way their next best is anywhere close. pathetic. you feel almost sorry for them)

 

The man is from your organisation, you think. He knows your face, at least, and Irina’s too. He is white, of medium height and build, clean shaven. He isn’t carrying British or US intelligence standard weapons. His Russian is Ukrainian accented. His tie is stupid. You tell him that last part.

 

He stops mid-spiel, surprised. You weren’t listening to him anyway.

 

“Shoot her first,” Irina says.

 

“ _Biǎo zi_ ,” you say.

 

He blinks, but there is no understanding on his face.

 

Idiot man.

 

Eve is not in the room.

 

She was in the bathroom before he broke in, and you haven’t heard a sound from that direction since. There is a window in the bathroom, and this flat is only on the second floor of the building. You wonder if she has jumped from it.

 

It would be the sensible thing to do, but Eve is no more sensible than you, which is to say, she is not sensible at all. And she wouldn’t walk away from a potential fight, because her sense of self preservation is even smaller than yours.

 

And she wouldn’t leave you behind.

 

(maybe. you think. you hope)

 

And she definitely wouldn’t leave _Irina._

 

(you would. maybe)

 

But then, where is she? Eve is many things, but subtle is not one of them. There’s a reason she was never an _actual_ spy, after all.

 

“Pay attention to me,” the man says, sharply.

 

He sounds angry. Are you making him angry? Good.

 

Angry people are easier to play with.

 

You are angry sometimes (lots of times), too, but you use it to put more force into your blows, to let off more shots, to break instead of bend. You don’t let it affect you in ways that can be used against you.

 

For example: you could never be angry enough not to notice someone creeping up behind you.

 

( _especially_ not if that someone is a small determined woman with _fantastic_ hair)

 

_Idiot man_.

 

He never stood a chance.

 

(but then, against eve polastri, who does?)

 

There is a dull _pop_ , and the man blinks, almost lazily. He slides to the floor, bullet hole in his back, blood already beginning to drip drip drip from it.

 

Eve is standing behind him, one of your guns clasped between her hands.

 

(you’d thought that you’d lost that gun between the fifth and sixth safehouse. _clever girl_ , you think)

 

There is blood on her face, and you can’t read her expression. You wish you could stare at it all day.

 

“Are there any more?”

 

Her voice is...you don’t know. You can’t describe it. It makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand up.

 

There is blood on her face, and for once, your voice seems to be stuck in your throat.

 

“No,” Irina says. She sounds the same, as usual.

 

(you think there is _definitely_ something wrong with her)

 

Eve nods, before she blinks quickly, eyes darting down to the dead man at her feet. She drops the gun, horrified.

 

There is blood on her face, and her eyes are wide and dark and guilty and oh and oh and _oh_.

 

You kiss her. Hard.

 

She shudders under your hands, once, twice, three times, and then she bites at the inside of your mouth.

 

You will burn down whole governments for this woman, you think, just to watch the flames dance in her eyes.

 

Behind you, Irina pretends to gag.

**Author's Note:**

> (mostly google) translation notes:
> 
> Мудак (russian) - asshole  
> Сука (russian) - bitch  
> Biǎo zi (mandarin) - bitch
> 
> i've been mostly in superhero fandoms for a while so this is the most grounded thing i've written in maybe two years?? amazing
> 
> the title, btw, is a play on the phrase 'it takes a village to raise a child' 
> 
> (the temp title for this, btw, was 'does this count as kidfic')


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